


The first night back/Confessions

by Imherepeasant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2.5K words, Fluff, M/M, Post S4, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 20:37:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9402020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imherepeasant/pseuds/Imherepeasant
Summary: Sherlock and John have nothing standing in their way anymore. Back in 221B, there are some revelations in the dark.100% fluff.





	

**Author's Note:**

> tiny one-shot. Hopefully cute.

“You can come back, if you want to. You and Rosie. When the flat’s back together.”  
John looked up from his lap. The DVD was still in, the screen frozen on Mary’s smiling face. Her blessing still hung in the air. It was a blessing, had to be. She wanted them to come together again, maybe she’d known how they felt? Maybe completely, but she was clever, she must have guessed Sherlock’s feelings. And here it was, a green light from John’s dead wife, almost “go get him”. Her approval of something more between the two. Could something more work now? It could. Nothing stood between them now. They could be together, together together.  
One step at a time. John’s health first, always John first.  
“I’d like to move back in, yeah. I hate this house.” John looked relieved, some of the lines dropping out of his face. He still looked older than Sherlock had ever noticed.  
“Too many memories. I understand.” Sherlock tamed his smile, the excitement of living with John disguised as sympathy.  
“Partly, it’s also bloody cold.” They chuckled quietly, it was indecent really, but the conspiracy didn’t matter, it was laughing. In comparison to the stress and sleeplessness of the previous few weeks it was a welcome release. 

When Baker Street was under construction, Sherlock slept in the spare room at John and Mary’s old house. John was right, it was a cold house. His headboard mirrored John’s in the next room, and the walls were thin enough that he could hear John’s muffled breathing, sleep heavy and steady. It was strangely calming, a pattern he could focus on and mimic. Sleep was usually difficult for Sherlock, his mind active even when his body was exhausted, but here, he felt his brain relax as the rest of his body soften into sleep. John was beautiful half-asleep. He padded around in thick socks to answer Rosie’s mewls in the night

The flat was finished, exactly the same as it had been before-both of them had wanted it that way, like nothing had changed. So much had changed. For one, Rosie was living in 221B as well, sleeping upstairs in John’s room with her father for the time being, although as she got older new arrangements would have to be made. In her last home, Rosie had rarely cried, only when she needed something. She actually began to sleep better after Mary had died, she was too young to miss her mother. This said, her first night in Baker Street was as noisy as John could remember. Of course, the main flat was blissfully quiet, separated from John’s room by a flight of stairs and some heavy insulation. Rosie-poor dear- just screamed and screamed. Had Mary been there, she would’ve left Rosie to put herself to sleep, as all babies learn to do at some point, however, the proximity of an exhausted John in bed made this impossible. Rosie knew that someone else was there, and that they weren’t acknowledging her. Conclusion: “Daddy can’t hear! Louder!”  
…

“Sherlock?”  
His long shape twisted under the grey bedsheets, svelte and sinewy, as his body had always been.  
“Hm?”  
“Rosie wont stop crying.”  
Sherlock pushed his hair away from where it had stuck to his face.  
“I can’t hear her.”  
“She’s upstairs. I’ve got the baby monitor though, so I can still hear her-“  
The monitor was quiet, save some soft baby snores. Great, now she falls asleep.  
“She’s quiet now.” Sherlock observed, propping himself up on one elbow. John nodded at Sherlock, feeling foolish. God, it looked like he was just trying to sneak into Sherlock’s silk pyjamas, instead of actually escaping baby Hell.  
“I’m sorry, I’ll leave.”  
Sherlock sat up suddenly, looking immediately wide awake.  
“Don’t.” Sherlock blurted, louder than anticipated.  
A short silence.  
“I mean,” he stammered, he’d never stammered before. “I mean, you don’t have to. You can stay. I don’t mind.”  
Sherlock shuffled sideways, onto one side of the bed.  
“You don’t have to let me, Sherlock, I don’t mind.” John headed towards the door.  
“No.” Sherlock was stood up now, following him. “Stay. Please.”  
Please? Why please?  
“Are you okay, Sherlock?”  
Realising what he had said, Sherlock’s eyes went wide and white. He got the earnest, pinched look in his jaw that meant honesty.  
“I’m still having nightmares.” He avoided John’s eyes, as though it was shameful.  
“Okay.” John said this slowly, carefully. He knew about the nightmares. A warm body in the form of Mary was often all he needed to brush off a difficult day and go to sleep. He could help Sherlock.  
A quick nod-the acknowledgement that this was happening, they were going to sleep in the same bed tonight.  
They parted and went to their respective sides. John felt the mattress sink under Sherlock’s weight. Less than a minute later and awkwardness dissolved as Sherlock drifted off and pushed his face into the pillow, splaying out his legs and turning onto his side. Despite his slender build he had a reassuring bulk when lying next to John. It was different from Mary’s steady snoring and heat, Sherlock was more restless, and more angular. His elbow jutted out through the thickness of the duvet, and the sheer length of his limbs meant that parts of him were bumping into John, or vice versa. He didn’t snore though. John remained awake for a few minutes more, slightly embarrassed still at the thought of sleeping with him finally-even though they were only sleeping. There had been something there with Sherlock, there still was something. When he was in Afghanistan, too, he’d thought about this sort of thing. Men. He was surrounded by physically flawless guys all the time, of course he had gay inclinations, but only sex. Being away from the bars full of blondes in London had meant he fooled around with guys a couple of times, but they weren’t Sherlock. He wanted something entirely different with Sherlock.

John wanted to sleep with him, as in sex. Obvious. But sleep sleep? More so than fuck him. Countless mornings John had been reading at the table with a mug of tea, to see Sherlock stumbling from his room in nothing but a sheet. When sleepy, Sherlock had an odd, dazed, entirely uncharacteristic dopey look on his face. It made him look softer, weaker. It made John want to sweep the sleep-mussed curls away from his forehead and kiss every inch of his skin, still flushed from bed. John had nearly plucked up the courage to do it once or twice, but it was never a rush, never too late. He thought they had forever, in their warm little flat. He thought he’d have Sherlock forever. Then he’d fallen. John had adjusted, he’d found Mary.

Mary had been different. It was a constant, practical love. The sex wasn’t bad, but he never adored her like he did Sherlock. He wanted to worship that man, and spend hours tracing his scars and burns and wounds. Mary had been sensible, quick and quiet, in the dark, in their bed. Sherlock was an entity, a masterpiece. There weren’t enough lights in London for John to fully appreciate his magnificence. John’d have him on every surface in the flat, and every surface outside of it before he was tired. Sleeping though? John fantasised about waking up glued to Sherlock in a knot of twisted limbs, sour mouths tracing each other before either man had really woken up. Where Mary was scheduled, Sherlock was spontaneous, a storm of a man in a well-fitting suit.

Sherlock rolled closer to John in a swirl of silken bedsheets. His curly hair was splayed over the pillowcase and stuck to his flushed face. He looked obscene. John shuffled into the centre of the bed and pulled the covers up over Sherlock’s pyjama’d shoulder more snugly. An excuse to brush over the thin cotton and feel the hot strength in the muscle beneath. Sherlock leant into the touch as John lingered on his arm, tracing lightly over the tired skin.  
“John.” He sounded sleepy and confused  
“Sorry, I ju-“ John removed his hand quickly, snatching it back like it had been burnt.  
Sherlock sat up slightly  
“No. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”  
Sherlock’s voice had taken on a new quality, one John had never noticed before, he stressed his words. He meant something specific by them.  
“It’s okay. It’s more than okay. You can… you should put your hand back.”

“It’s all fine.” John had said that, when he thought Sherlock could be interested. Sherlock knew that, he had to remember. This was it. It had to be, Sherlock’s invitation. Tell him. Tell him.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was quiet and croaking. He sounded minuscule in the darkness.  
“Mhm?”  
“I’m not straight.”  
“I know.”  
Sherlock knew everything.  
Sherlock went to speak again, he cleared his throat and turned to face John.  
“I’m homosexual. Gay. I lied when I said I wasn’t interested. I was interested in you from the start.”  
John relaxed for the first time in a year. Finally, finally. I was happening, it felt like a daydream.  
“You never said anything.”  
“My life was so fragile, so fleeting. I couldn’t put you in danger like that.”  
“I came along anyway. Why didn’t you say anything?”  
“Moriarty was time consuming.” Sherlock laughed breathily for a moment “I was going to talk to you after he’d gone, but I… left too.”

The “not dead” thing. That had damn near killed John.

“I still haven’t forgiven you for that. Dick. You should’ve told me. I grieved you, for years.”  
John curled up on his side, turning into himself. His voice came out as almost nothing, choked and strained now.  
“I thought I would die without you. I did. I died without you.” John was crying now, hot, humiliated tears running sideways down his face into the pillow.  
Sherlock scrambled closer, taking John’s hand in both of his own.  
“That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, John. Leaving you. I didn’t sleep properly for months. I didn’t eat without you reminding me. I didn’t even shower, I couldn’t move. I was empty. I wrote thousands of texts I couldn’t send. I wrote a letter too, telling you everything, everything. My whole life. It’s under the bed. I was a shell those two years, John.”  
“I couldn’t do anything, you absolute cock. I was a corpse, It was like you took part of me with you, the only part of me that cared.” Angry, bitter, John bent his head closer to Sherlock’s oppsite him on the bed.  
Sherlock touched John’s face, and brought their foreheads together.  
“I’m sorry. I’m back now. I was going to tell you I loved you. That’s why I came back when I did, to tell you.”  
“I was with Mary by then.”  
“And I was heartbroken, torn apart, completely devastated. I’ve never felt anything like it before or since.”  
“I’m so sorry.”  
Sherlock sat up, and brought John with him.  
“No apologies, no wasting time. I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere. I’m here, I’m completely yours, If you want me.”  
John looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes, they were earnest and watering.  
“Never leave me again.” John’s voice trembled  
“I won’t. I swear.”

Then he kissed John. It was very different from being kissed by Mary, it was less polite, more desperate, but not to do with sex. It was as though Sherlock was trying to get as close as possible, to squish his soul next to John’s and stay there forever. He started crying again, salt seeping into the kiss, making it sadder, sweeter. They broke apart, crying and gasping.

“I only want you, John. You’re my best friend and my colleague and I love you on top of all of that. The rest can fuck off, I want you here every night, and with me everyday, and still there in-between.’  
“I love you back, I do, I did, I always have. I want you back. I want everything with you. I can’t take my eyes off of you, I spend all day in awe. You’re unbelievable and I can’t live alone any more, I was so alone before you.”  
Sherlock wrapped himself closer to John, slipping his arms behind the smaller man’s back and pushing his face into the shoulder he was shot in.  
“Oh, you don’t have to. You never have to. I am here forever. I’m never leaving you, never. I can’t. I love you. More than I love cases, more than I love heroin, more than I love my parents, more than I love air.”  
John gasped as Sherlock began to kiss his neck, then met his mouth again. He carried on saying that he loved John, the words mumbled and blurred by lips on heated skin. They stopped there, nothing but shoulders and necks and faces and tears. They wanted to cherish this purgatory, savour the sweetness. It was almost light by the time the whisperings of “finally”, and “I missed you”, and “I love you” stopped, and the two fell into exhausted delirious sleep.

…

Rosie, predictably, woke up early, squawking. Sherlock lumbered to pacify her, leaving John snuffling about in their (their! God that felt good) bed. When John shuffled from their (their! Again! he’d never get tired of this!) bedroom, in Sherlock’s dressing gown of all things, Sherlock practically glowed. It trailed behind John, dwarfed him, a waterfall of purple silk draped down to puddle at his feet.  
“Is it okay that I borrowed this? I can take it off.”  
“You look nice in it, I like it.”  
John smiled his sleepy smile and started making coffee.  
Sherlock, someone very opposed to babies on principle, looked across Rosie, sitting up in a nest of blankets. She still had fake milk on her chin, and smelled like the awful stuff, but Sherlock found himself not caring. She was sweet, she had John’s crinkly blue eyes, and in some way, she was his. Sherlock was part of this little family, he was almost like a father.  
“John?”  
“Yeah? Everything okay? I’m fantastic myself.”  
“Everything’s good, everything’s brilliant. I just wanted to tell you that I love Rosie, too. I’m glad she’s with us. I want to help look after her.”  
John’s face broke open into a grin.  
“Really? Sherlock Holmes, a daddy?”  
“I’d like that. I want to, with you. If you’ll let me.”  
“I would love that, Sherlock. Good God, It’s like I’ve woken up on another planet. I’m so, so happy.”  
Sherlock stood up and poured a mug of coffee, then stood back with John, watching Rosie fumble with her baby-fat fingers on a block. Everything was coming together, everything was clear now. The danger and the “game” were obsolete, this feeling was the best. It dawned on Sherlock that this was the rest of his life, stretched out. He was responsible for a baby! He was in a relationship, a new, scary, fantastic one. John and Rosie and Sherlock. He had a family! Nothing existed outside of the flat, all three wrapped up in the coziness of a winter Sunday morning. Sherlock was, for the first time, completely satisfied. He didn’t crave a case or a cigarette or a fix- for now at least. This moment, this man in front of him made him feel unlike he ever had previously. He was content, and safe, and happy.  
So, so, so happy.


End file.
